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Poetry

Crows, like ghosts flocked in a field of asphodels, gather.
They startle up in the air,
drop like a length of chain.

She could call their cold caws lamentation
or laughter.
It is hard to recall what she did not know

Before she knelt here:
the brayed past smudged from too much handling.
(Was there a room ablaze in sunlight, dust motes flashing

Around him as exhausted he collapsed beside her?)
Who can speak about tomorrow,
forsaken before it arrives?

The constellations turn,
distorted by dark matter,
Shimmer and writhe like a catch as a net is hauled in.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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